Debts
by YamiKatie
Summary: Yami isn't a person known for performing onesided favours out of sheer kindness. So, after a tiresome day defeating Yami Malik at Isis’ request, he pays her a little visit. Because, like it or not, she owes him a debt which he is unwilling to overlook.


A/N: This is sort-of a carry-on from 'Reflection', although I am reluctant to advertise it as such. Although, like 'Reflection', this story deals with analysing what happened to "less-important" characters such as the Ishtar family just after Battle Ship ended. So this story is literally _just_ after Yami no Malik is defeated by Yami no Yugi, and before everyone arrives at Domino Harbour and delivers their increasingly sickening farewells. Ugh…the things my Malik-chan says…it's not so bad in the Japanese, but in the English he goes on and on…the traitor. (shakes fist) Not that he was _really_ evil, but, as I said in 'Reflection', he was basically apologising his life away. Gah.

**Debts.**

_Am I no longer permitted consciousness, then?_

_You never were. I am going to bury you with my own hands._

_Naturally…and so, you don't know then…what events you are setting in motion?_

To the others, he died screaming. But one person knew how, at the end, for a moment there was a silence so precise and perfect that perhaps it could almost have been acceptance; and in this way the debt was paid.

……………

The duelling arena atop the Battle Ship stood deserted, abandoned. Below, the occupants were scattered between rooms like a tossed handful of beads, with the various degrees of exhaustion represented between them. Even the breeze that occasionally forced its way down from the arena hung frozen, as if it too had become tired.

Motou Yugi and his various friends, cheerleaders and devotees lolled on armchairs, bodies ravaged by lethargy. Like the last dregs of paint from tubes they were used up, remains thick and useless, emotions watered down into simple, easily-comprehendible things like relief, joy, tiredness. Any remaining energy which was succeeded in being reluctantly squeezed out was spent on things like breathing; but maintaining consciousness was not a high priority anymore in any case, and Shizuka was already asleep, body unmoving from within her brother's weary clutching grip. They were all drowsing now: Otogi shifting and restless from the sofa, where he was rendered just out of range of Jounouchi's sister. The drowsy tantalising waft of her perfume nudged him continuously and infuriatingly; his sleep was fragmented and unsatisfactory, consisting of dreams where he tried and failed to punch Honda's face into new and interesting shapes. Nonetheless, something held them altogether, something vague and indefinable but rather pleasing to any beholder - which ruled out any possibility of it being the 'power of friendship', then. But it was something strong nevertheless, a solid, unshakeable force which created understanding between them.

And if this feeling of friendship or acceptance or whatever it was could have replicated itself all over the world, that would have been a disaster, dismaying to anyone capable of feeling nausea. But if it could have been cloned in just one other place, Isis knew what place she would wish it to be, and also what she would give in order for it to happen.

Her baby brother was scrunched up on the furthest corner of the bed. The fire in his eyes was too intense to be merely a display of distraction; he was utterly absorbed in something, or perhaps nothing. A whole, completed nothing where there _was_ nothing, except his voice and the other voice. Outward verbal communications were, for the most part, zero; if Isis talked to him or soothed him or touched him he would do nothing but lift his head and smile faintly at her, a smile of confused indulgence, before his eyes, now cleared of black flecks, clouded back over. Rishid did not appear to be concerned by this; he was seemingly content to stand guard by his master, drinking in his newly-purified presence. Isis wished that he would at least acknowledge their youngest brother's utter detachment from the world; seeing Rishid resume his usual dogged devotion so unquestioningly confused her - it was beginning to make her wonder whether this was all part of her imagination.

The sky was almost entirely conquered by dark, the sluggish black sea below melded with the shadowed sky as if the work of a skilled artist who had painstakingly blended them together. She rose from her chair by the window - gaze involuntarily brushing alongside Rishid's where he had planted himself squarely in front of the door - and placed a hand on Malik's shoulder. It felt cold, a ruthlessly-chiselled slab of worn bone.

"Akhii, it's getting late; won't you go to bed?"

He looked up questioningly, and watched her gesture self-consciously to the bed. He offered her a wan, terrible smile. "You don't need to worry about me."

Earnestly: "But I _do;_ I-" She drew up her legs, rearranging her dress, sculpting it back into place. An arm around him provided no response: it was like embracing a lonely wind-chipped rock. "You should have some rest."

"Perhaps another time," he recited distantly.

She cast a hopeless, perhaps even slightly accusing, glance at Rishid, who stared impassively back. After a moment, with a motionless Malik still stiffly captive within Isis' arms, Rishid strode over, tread firm and decisive.

"Malik-sama, our journey back to Egypt begins tomorrow. It would perhaps be prudent to rest."

For a long moment this piece of advice evoked no response; then the teenager nodded slowly, without looking at him. With the effortful movements of an old man he reached down and pulled the covers up around himself like a cocoon, while still crouched in the corner.

When he had not made any further movements for several minutes, Isis delicately beckoned to Rishid for them to leave the room. The immense Egyptian was reluctant, staring for a long moment at the wide-eyed figure huddled in the very corner of the room, before grunting acquiescence.

Barely had he shut the door before Isis turned to him. "Why is he like this, Rishid? Why won't he communicate with us?" The anxiety threw her voice into a higher pitch, so that she sounded almost hysterical.

He grunted again. "We don't know the full extent of all which he has experienced. He requires time to realise the new situation, time to reflect on past-doings."

"No, he doesn't. He has just gone through the very traumatic order of having a psychopath ripped from his mind, and now he needs support and care from his _family_, which _I_ was trying to give him! He needs reminding that we are here for him, not solitude."

Another grunt. "If you say so."

Back in their room, the subject of their discussion traced an Eye into the wall with his finger over and over again, fingernail etching a shallow trench into the wallpaper. He was trying to remember what it looked like, to recall the exact shape, but in his memory there was nothing but a blur of pixels, as if it had been censored out. And no Millennium Rod to consult either.

_Do you miss it? I know that you don't think you need anyone, that you embrace loneliness and hold it close to you, like a mother protecting a child by holding it close to her birth-swelled body - but it's also self-protection, isn't it? A protective force that others instinctively veer away from - no one attacks a child._

He paused, waiting for agreement. And then he nodded, and spoke out loud, very softly. "My protection is myself: my physical strength, my ability to manipulate the Shadows, my complete, unerring faith in myself and my supremacy."

_True, true, but you avoid the question nonetheless. Going out of your way to seek out loneliness - it suggests a certain dependence. The truly strong depend on no outside aspects._

"I am permitted enjoyment of certain things, surely? When one has more imaginative goals one must be prepared to take trouble to achieve them."

_You are permitted nothing. Not happiness, not indulgence, not justice._

"And not even life…?"

_When you are born dead, it doesn't count._

Rishid closed the door respectfully quietly. "Your…our sister has departed to her room." He raised his eyes up to the person whom he had sworn eternal and unfailing allegiance to, whose glazed purple eyes roved the wall in meaningless circles.

…………

Her hands sought each other as soon as she sat down, unconsciously coming together in the demure pose that she now assumed mostly without thinking; certainly, if she had, at this moment, looked down at her lap, she would have been astonished to view herself in this position. But then she was not interested in her hands, not when the only thing she could see was her brother's haunted, empty none-expression, and his tensely-withdrawn body. Frantically she attempted to come up with something, some explanation to justify this rejection; yet nothing could she find. Had she endured Battle City to receive this semi-catatonic hunk of flesh in reward?

In the corridor outside, one of the few individuals still awake strode easily towards the other cabins. Although his more baser instincts dictated that a strut would be a far more natural gait for him, coupled with an air of polite disdain, the more sophisticated part of him was very aware of the importance of appearances to reassure and sedate the masses, and conceded to affect a more casual and reasonable air, accompanied with a smile on just the right side of haughty. Useful indeed to have this second skin laid on top of him; he could program it to his own desires, and choose which emotions he wished to manifest.

He raised a hand to knock at the door, pausing briefly to frown internally at its detestable paleness, before rapping three low, firm knocks. When it was opened, he already had an appropriately serious expression prepared; there was no need for swoons just yet and besides, unnecessary smiling was so _tiresome._ Especially considering the sort of things which truly gave him pleasure, as opposed to something more petty such as duelling, and how often the aforementioned events actually happened.

Isis' hand went to her mouth at the revelation that the Pharaoh had chosen to call on _her_ at this late hour. Hurriedly she stepped aside, offering him an unobstructed path into the room.

"Pharaoh… Please, sit down."

He graced her with a brief nod of acknowledgement, seating himself in the pro-offered chair and folding his arms over the long chain of the Puzzle. The slight upward tilt of his chin, the way he sat absolutely upright - these things could have lead one to believe that it was a jewelled and gilded throne that he was seated upon, as opposed to an economy-priced seat provided by a Kaiba with no wish to lavish luxuries upon mere guests and long-term adversaries. He paused briefly before speaking - letting the suspense rise, as it were - and then began neutrally, "The Battle City tournament has of today been concluded. The rightful winner has been recognised, the God Cards restored to their rightful guardian, the Items where they will be used most…_appropriately."_ He lingered a little over the last word. "So. Now that your wishes have been indulged, what are your plans regarding tomorrow, and after that?" His voice moved from that of a formal, appropriately-speech making tone -with some regret: he did so enjoy speeches - to a deeper, more comfortable tone, inviting her to confide in him.

Such was the smooth and steady ooze of charisma that for several moments after he had ceased to speak Isis continued to gaze, enraptured; then she started and flushed, having belatedly comprehended that a reply was expected. His faint smile suggested unfazed indulgence at this reaction, as if he were used to people becoming so utterly wrapped up in what he was saying that they often did forget to offer anything of their own. "Well…Rishid and Malik and I were intending to return to Egypt as soon as we can." She added in embarrassed haste: "I think we belong there."

His eyes were fixed on hers, as if every stumbling word she uttered was of great and profound meaning; or perhaps it was she who stared unabatingly at him, for she knew that she could never look away. "So you are confident that the darkness within your brother is eternally vanquished?"

"Why, of course!" Her eyes dilated in shock at this suggestion that the Pharaoh had not entirely succeeded in something - as if the question were enticing her to question his powers and skill.

He saw at once that he had erred, and sought to placate her. In doing so an element of satisfied pleasure crept unconsciously into his voice; what a joy it was to sooth these mortals, to reassure them that his presence ensured their protection from everything imaginable! A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth; he detected it, and shushed it back. "I wish, of course, to check that your lives - those of your family and of yourself - are now able to proceed in a more satisfactory fashion from before."

She smiled; for a brief moment it radiated pure pleasure. "It will happen. Now that we are together again as we should be, it will happen." Pain tainted her next words, as she murmured, "Although…he seems so…so different…"

The Pharoah had been nodding slowly as she had begun to speak, as though every single word were of the utmost interest to him; now, as he detected what was dangerously close to doubt, to dissatisfaction, in the tone of one of his faithful subjects, he prepared to give her something a little closer to his full attention. "You are referring to your younger brother?"

"Yes, yes." She leaned forward unhappily, and her hair shielded her face from him. It annoyed him, as if witnessing a subject's unconscious attempt to not show him the whole picture, to not offer it on a plate with the delightful smile of the joyfully servile. "He's so…quiet. He won't talk to me." Her lip quivered. "Although…he _does_ talk to Rishid." Absently she shoved her hair back behind her ears.

He was staring at her hand, before realise it was his turn to reply; hence the slightly terse: "Is he with Rishid now?"

"Yes."

"Mm. Naturally he is still struggling to come to terms with the fact that I have bestowed freedom upon him. Most probably he is dazed by recent events and is still attempting to comprehend them, and the effects they will have on him. It is only to be expected of such a person." It was with the greatest difficulty that he restrained the patronising boredom threatening to conquer his tone - discussing the health of a person did not greatly interest him, especially when it happened to be one of the most spoilt little brats that he had ever had the tiresome luck to encounter.

"That's what Rishid said -" this evoked a slight frown from the Pharaoh, who generally viewed what he himself said as being both insightful and unique, even when humouring a subject - "but this…this _state_ of his applies only to me; he doesn't act anything like this when Rishid speaks to him! At least…he holds a conversation for an amount of time."

Her voice was growing higher as she approached the source of her distress, causing another frown from the Dark Yugi as Egyptian-style alarm bells were set off raucously in his head, signalling that he was failing to Reassure the Masses. It appeared some sort of sacrifice was needed to push things along. "Perhaps…if you think it appropriate, I could pay your brother a visit and discuss matters with him. To reiterate the new situation."

A gasp. To go out of his way to rectify this - to pay such heed to her - to listen so attentively - tears threatened to dissolve her composure as she thought how _kind_ the Pharaoh was. Another gasp, muffled, as she thought how pushy and self-assured she had surely come across as, when she only wanted the best for her family. Her trembling eyes met his, and his deep, calming gaze soothed her.

"Do you think it would be of help?"

Dumb with joy, she nodded feverishly.

"Then I will visit your brother tomorrow, and afterwards it will be as if you were children again, brimming with love for one another." This image, and of him taking a fatherly role, pleased the Dark Yugi. Very briefly, he allowed himself to dwell on his undeniable skills, of how much he suited the role of Pharaoh. Truly the Gods had chosen well.

"Yes…yes…" Isis looked as if she could jump up and clap her hands with delight at how right it all was. "Pharaoh, I don't know how I can thank you…"

_Oh, just add it to the list._ "Isis, causing you pleasure is the greatest reward the Gods can offer me."

She blushed at that, cheeks delightfully incandescent with vitality.

The Dark Yugi leisurely unfolded his legs, and then folded them back over the other side. "Now…"

She looked up at him, eyes eager and anticipating, as if having just requested a boon. "Yes, my-" Her hair fell back in her eyes, and she broke off eye contact to sweep it back. She did not see his expression change.

"Isis. Look at me."

She would have obeyed regardless, but nonetheless his gaze captured her, weaving a bond she would never choose to struggle against. "Now that certain trivialities have been put in order-"

She continued to gaze in unquestioning awe, ears working a few moments behind her eyes so that he was relentlessly swinging on to the next sentence before she could even begin to ponder what triviality he might have been referring to.

"- it is time for us to move on to other, more important matters. You owe me a debt, Isis."

The words rang emptily in the small cabin, and although his tone had changed, becoming flat and coldly business-like, it was still several moments before Isis' brain began to decipher the meaning.

"I…?"

"A debt," he repeated, voice now icy.

She blinked, staring at him in slightly fearful confusion. "I…don't-"

He interrupted her; and now when he spoke his voice was again warm, understanding. His hands were spread palm-up in front of him in a kindly gesture of benevolence. "I think you will find it all quite easy to understand, once I remind you of a few tiny details."

She nodded, detached, but still suffocated in an urge to serve him.

"Very well. I will even extend so far as to a recap." Where a mortal man would have paused for breath as well, he did so merely for effect. "Two days ago - ah, it might even be three very soon - you came to me with a request. Do you remember what that request was?"

She shook her head blankly - independent thought was asking too much of her at this moment.

"I see. I shall, then, _enlighten_ you." He spoke the word slowly, letting his tongue savour it, relishing the sound of his voice. "You came to me with the request that I save your dear brother's soul. Or rather, the half of him that seemed most likely to possess a soul, And I, recognising my duty, agreed."

He looked at her. Still nothing but blankness.

"In further recognition of my duty, I performed the task with the excellence that is expected of me. With the results here before us. Now, Ishtar Isis, I believe you too have a task to perform, and I remain hopeful that you will rise to it just as splendidly as I myself have done."

Isis said nothing, but the colour was rapidly draining from her skin and her shapely hand had risen to her throat.

"It appears that it is necessary to remind you, ne?" He watched her hand twitching against her throat as if preparing to close convulsively around it like the claw of a crab. "Atop the tower of Alcatraz, amid the cool ferocity of the winds, you got down on your lovely knees and begged me to rescue your darling baby brother. You offered me everything, it appeared: and yet I intended to refuse. Because you had not yet offered me everything; you were lying when you screamed that you had nothing left to give. I seem to recall that I corrected you on the matter."

She shook in her seat as if an earthquake affected that tiny area of the room. Her mouth opened, closed, opened. A less patient person would have given in to the urge to shake her soundly, but the Pharaoh was satisfied, he was in control; and besides, there was something delightfully appealing about the growing realisation and horror dawning in those deep blue eyes.

She was rendered speechless anyway, but in any case he would have continued just as relentlessly, leaning forward to whisper, "Because you _did_ have something left to offer me, didn't you? Yourself. _All_ of it."

She whimpered.

"And so the time has arrived, and you are to honour your side of our bargain. You _are_ intending to, aren't you, Isis?" His voice dropped to a low murmur, almost seductive. "You wouldn't reject…me?"

Wordlessly, she nodded, then hurriedly shook her head.

"Ii. That's very good."

From somewhere deep in the void, her tongue emerged. "I…I didn't mean…like _that…"_

He smiled a little. "Oh, I think you did."

"B-But it's not fair, he's not even-"

"That doesn't come into it." He continued to smile, a contended, satisfied drawing back of his lips that was beginning to seem a little eerie. Then he reached out and ran his hand down the side of her face in a languid ripple, feeling her shiver. "Not quite the physical embodiment of perfection…no, not quite; but you will suffice, oh yes."

Isis let out a choking sound and ran for the door. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly at the handle, even though she couldn't remember him locking it…

He rose, leisurely and with the dignity that befitted one of such _obviously_ high status. And when she continued her vain attempt to yank off the handle, he placed a hand on her shoulder and drew her gently away. "Don't treat the place with such contempt, Isis. Kaiba spent a lot of money furnishing it, I believe." He looked around. "Of course, I am referring only to places such as his private quarters, and not a –how do you say it in these times? Ah, yes. A shithole such as this."

For a moment longer her fingers rested wretchedly and weakly on the handle of the locked door, before falling back down to her side. "You…you can't be serious about this."

He smiled yet again, serenely this time. It seemed that there almost as many different versions and reincarnations of his smile as there were of he himself. "Now, which cliché would you prefer that I use to answer that? I'm so serious about this that it is almost a cliché in itself."

And he seized her round the waist and hurled her onto the bed.

His throw, just like every activity or action that he took part in, was perfect; she landed squarely in the middle of the duvet,

He seated himself next to her and watched with detached amusement as she rearranged herself. "I'm a very honourable person, Isis. And having promised to fulfil every clause of this arrangement of ours, I now feel obliged to do so. Are you an honourable person?"

"…Yes," she whispered.

"Then show me." And he pushed her limp, unresisting body back down into the bed.

Her wide, startlingly blue eyes regarded him pleadingly: "P-Please Pharaoh, not this…I'll give you anything, anything…"

"I know you will. You're going to give me _everything." _He sat up, head cocked to one side in amusement. "A dress, hm? Well, I relish challenges. Unless you can give me some advice to get started-"

_Go to hell_ formed briefly in her mind – but it didn't even reach her lips. She wasn't at that stage yet; besides, this was the _Pharaoh_; and yet it couldn't be, because he was supposed to…to…

He surveyed her, eyes roving hungrily over her breasts. She could almost see the cogs turning in his mind: how to go about this? The primitive, singularly-pleasing motion of crudely wrenching everything aside? Or something slower, delighting in every strip of fabric eased away…? The pale hand descended down upon her, and she rolled to one side, nearly throwing herself off the bed. He snickered, grabbing her arm to pull her back up. Then, suddenly dropping her, so that she thudded floorwards; she watched, incredulous, baffled, as he smiled pleasantly and extended a hand.

"I'm so sorry. _May _I?"

A retort formed only to instantly dissolve upon contact with her lips. Numbly, she reached out and let him trap her fingers within his; a gentle, loving vice clamped securely over her hand, which now pulled her back and towards him. He slipped an arm around her back, encircling her as he pulled her close. His mouth met hers.

Dimly, an explosion of hard, firm warmth, swallowing her slowly up; his hand dug into her back, urging her body towards him, and such was the force connecting them that it was as if he would only need to pull a little harder to suck her down altogether into the darkness that danced around them.

Distantly, weakly, she murmured, "What….what was that…?"

He looked down at her, and his composed features split open into a grinning void. "That, my dear, was Me." In a gradual and complex moving of facial muscles, his expression carefully weaved itself back into that neutrally serious expression he was so known for. "And you…?"

Her hand tugged him forward, desperately seeking a replication of that warmth. He obliged, bending over her like a vampire with his delirious victim. And again came that fusion, vision bending into a crazed kaleidoscope of newly-embraced sensations that would otherwise have struck her as merely mundane or even nothing at all: the tantalising smoothness of his lips, the exquisitely delicate brushing of her check with long tapering fingers like the gentle wind ruffling the downy almost-feathers of young birds, the burn of anticipation blazing behind his crimson eyes; and behind it all, the feverish glowing of the Puzzle's unnatural light reverberating in time to her pounding heart, the immense drumming like the smashing of horse hooves upon cobbles.

Stillness. Like a shiver in the dark. His body poised, his burning eyes exploring every surface of her in search of the next area to conquer. Body or soul – the order had no importance. And as he trembled to a brief, shivering pause, she moaned and grabbed wildly at him, fingers flailing for a hold. He watched her. Watched as she blinked, lashes going up, down, up.

"Malik…" Her eyes cleared. Then widened. She thrust his arm away from her, and he allowed her to push him back, to sit up. "Can…can I see him?"

"Soon. But first you have to prove your honour in full, Isis."

"But that…that was-"

"-a satisfactory beginning. But you have not yet proved yourself able to sustain it…to develop things."

"You…want…"

"_All_ of you, Isis. Not this menial offering. The Gods require offerings that suit their inherent greatness, not some paltry, pathetic promise of one, that whispers of things withheld. You will withhold nothing before the Gods-" His voice rose to a ringing, authority-infested timbre that threatened to shake the walls so that even they would bow down before him. "Don't you understand? You are going to give up _everything_. Lost in the ecstasy of knowing that you have surrendered…"

"I won't…I…"

"And if you hold back…well, our powers are limitless, but not in only one direction. What is given can be taken away." His fingers drummed ceaselessly on her shoulder. "I have the power to do that – you may think your little brother cleansed of the darkness, but any soul, once tainted, is always that little bit weaker, that much more susceptible to…reversion. And besides…it would upset him to hear you scream, wouldn't it? Any other sound is acceptable, can be dismissed – but not that of a creature screaming…we are programmed to recognise that sound, Isis, we cannot push it away; we would never dare to push away the most beautiful sound that our ears are capable of registering. It would be such a vile rejection – the Gods created all the sounds for us, they created everything; and it is our role to hear and appreciate every one. And, of course-" he broke off, smirking; "this fervent and unquestioning appreciation of the Gods' creations is not to be limited to sounds…not at all…"

The hunger burst back into his expression; the un-withheld greediness crowded behind his eyes contrasted with the delicate, almost thoughtful movements of his pale fingers methodically pushing away the unwanted sheath of her dress. Her hand came up, touched his arm in a last plea; he caught them, closed his fingers lovingly around hers, and placed them back down by her side.

"So, so…omae-wa kirei da-na?"

His fingers traced the sides of her breasts appreciatively. Dimly, she thought how she had never seen anyone gain so much satisfaction from something so small - was it the excitement of conquest, or desire for her herself that she was witnessing now? She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing. Just like her brother.

Some distant sense of uncomfortable release - she opened her eyes just in time to see the last physical barrier dropped neatly to one side of the bed. His hands cupped her again, loosely yet revelling in their firm softness; they seemed to melt into him, into his hands. She looked at him, taking in the image of these white monsters crawling lovingly over her body, and closed her eyes again.

Sickening pale, he was. It made him want to tear off this skin he was suffocated under, to seek the body's crimson rivers or pink flexes or muscle or _anything_ except this hideous, contemptible _paleness._ Was he still a ghost? He spread himself onto top of her, as if expressing the wish that if he pressed close enough her colour was run into him, and he could be alive again. He could feel her flat stomach pumping against him, betraying the defiant expressionless-ness of her immobile face. The manifestation of fear pulled him back, as it always did; he smirked, and reached out with a tapering finger to rub gently across her smoothly-jutting collarbone. He lingered for a moment in the shallow trench, finger placed in the hollow next to her neck, before moving upwards and bringing his palm up to caress her neck. Such exquisite smoothness.

He sat up and leaned back, tweaking one of her nipples almost impishly, and felt her draw back with a little wincing movement. "Do-da, Isis?" Kneeling with one leg either side of her, he fell to massaging her breasts in generous circles, enchanted by their pliability. Then he leaned forward, draping himself over her and easing the wisps of hair out of her dulled blue eyes. And as she arched her neck just as he knew she would, he leaned forward a little more and raked the clean, smooth surface of her dark throat with his long tongue. A little murmur of disgust issued from within; he placed the tip of his white finger on her neck, feeling the slight trembling vibration of escaped sound. His tongue explored the underside of her jaw, relishing the contours. Trembling fingers felt for her face, holding her still.

"Just…hurry up and rape me," she muttered thickly, each syllable delivering its pleasing rumble of vibration through his skin.

He smiled. "Ah now Isis, but that is crude. I like my pleasures delivered slowly…every movement a tantalising whisper of what is to come, not the clumsy, makeshift clawing that constitutes rape." His grin filled her vision; it seemed to widen far beyond the limits of the human face. "And I would never deign to such amateurishness."

She let her delicately-mascared blue eyes stare out her daring contempt; he liked it, and stroked the side of her cheek in quietly amused reply. Then he slipped quietly into her, and all at once the world exploded cataclysmically around her, a ringing blast of blinded incandescent shadows that raged below and she gaped unseeingly at a ceiling that seemed to dance to feverish music above her until everything had descended into swinging, swirling darkness.

……………

Asleep, but barely - a shimmering, hovering, taunting state of unconsciousness that shook him loosely; where he moaned and turned his head to the side of the pillow and back again, until Rishid placed a bear-like hand on his master's forehead and he lay quiet again, pacified, if only temporarily.

Beneath the tenderly-arranged blankets, his arms lay carved with the half-moon shapes of his own fingernails, where in sleep he had clawed so desperately at himself that it were as if he were trying to free something. Rishid wondered, briefly, what his master considered his own skin a barrier for, what he thought he was trying to release, or keep captive.

Malik stirred again, and his eyes widened in consciousness. They drooped a moment later, so that faded, tired violet just peeked out from under mostly-closed lids. He stared at his keeper in a mixture of calculation and confusion that showed he was unsure whether he should be fearing him.

_After all, why are you afraid of him? He's only 25 but he's old already; you can see it in his eyes._

He felt a portion of his mind twist in amusement. _Quite so._

His fingers tensed at his side, where the Millennium Rod would be, closing on air as he sighed. Then, a grin tugged at his mouth, forming into a silent eruption of triumphant laughter.

_Why, I don't even need it!_

He eased his tired body upright, met Rishid's eyes, and smiled.

……………

A/N: Whew, that felt good. 5500 words, and for a one-shot too…I'll actually be amazed if anyone got to the end, considering how long the damn thing is. Ah, but I can't speak ill of it: this thing is my baby. (cradles it)

I'll leave you all with one question, though, which I will be interested to hear any answers to: In your opinion, has Yami Malik _actually_ returned or have I opted for a Crazy!Malik who believes that he has? I seem to have opted to leave the answer open, although I think I know which one I was siding towards. Moo-hah-hah.

And, if you got to the end without feeling too bored and wandering off, you can always think about pressing that pretty little 'Review' button. I reply individually to each review made now, you know. Besides, it makes me happy. Funny things happen to people who make me unhappy.


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